


Amends to the Dead

by DrumsAndGuns, femalevolent



Category: Bates Motel (2013)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociative Identity Disorder, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Oedipal Issues, Past Abuse, Past Incest, References to Drugs, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1266910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrumsAndGuns/pseuds/DrumsAndGuns, https://archiveofourown.org/users/femalevolent/pseuds/femalevolent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amid growing concerns over her father's death and his affair with the mysterious "B," Bradley starts to self-destruct as she searches for answers. At the same time, the investigation of Miss Watson's death zeros in on Norman, leaving Dylan to balance the town's raging drug war, his brother's instability, and his relationship with Bradley as it all unfolds around him. [tag to 1x10]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This started as a one x one between femalevolent and me after we met on a roleplay forum. I had Remo, Norman, and Bradley; she had Dylan, Norma, and Romero. Things were simple. Jigsawing it all into chapter one when we decided to fic this was not. -Rooster

“I wasn’t shitting you when I said Gil’d be pissed if he found out about your little break-in.”  
  
They sat before the dying fire, Remo nursing a black eye with an empty beer bottle from his truck, Dylan clenching a half-full one in his hands. “Hurts like a bitch. That guy...” Remo flicked a few ashes off his cigarette and watched them crumble in the blaze. “Looks like a goddamn lightweight, but he’s got a _helluva_  strong arm. Shit...”  
  
Dylan should have been thanking him. Should have been, but wasn’t. So he got roughed up a little. It wasn't the worst beating he'd ever had, and it certainly wouldn't be his last. At least he hadn't been fired.  
  
Even the word made his balls retract.  
  
The way Gil had said it, matter-of-factly, left little to the imagination. Some days, he felt like he was in over his head and wondered what might have happened if he'd never run into Ethan at that strip joint; hadn't been lured by the flash of easy money; hadn't come to White Pine Bay at all. But the alternative would have looked like what, exactly? Find a couple of part-time seasonal gigs somewhere up north that paid zilch in comparison; make enough to scrape out a meager existence; put gas in his tank; food in his belly; roof over his head? And then what? Settle down? That was a joke.  
  
“It doesn’t even look that bad.” His terse, level response only elicited a dirty look that he could feel through his leather jacket. “I mean, what do you want me to say?”  
  
“Nothing. Never mind.” And as happy as Remo was to let them sit in silence, Dylan was even happier to comply. The warmed-over beer felt heavy in his gut, hardly helped by the sunbeams radiating down and illuminating every particle of dust around them in a flurry of glowing, shimmering white.  
  
For a long time, the only sounds that broke through the forest canopy were the strangled cries of birds as they wheeled around the distorted image of the sun, coupled every so often with the snapping of twigs beneath chipmunks’ feet, or the rustling of leaves when a cool breeze passed by. Six hours of guarding the fields was never a particularly interesting task, but today it seemed more taxing on Dylan’s brain than usual; the stillness, the quiet, allowed his mind to torment him with thoughts of the week’s events.  
  
His brother was a rumored killer—no, he _was_ a killer—but now he was rumored to have done it again, slashed the throat of his language arts teacher in the four walls of her own apartment. His stomach twisted at the idea of it, but knotted around the question – _why was Norman even there?_  
  
But then...Dylan wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.  
  
“Pretty little thing, wasn’t she?”  
  
He blanched; it was as though Remo had read his mind.  
  
“Uh...I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“That teacher, the one that’s all over the news.”  Remo took a drag off his cigarette and blew smoke into the wind. “I'd like to wear her like a ski mask...well, not anymore. I pass on the whole necrophilia deal.” As Dylan opened his mouth to reply," Oh, right.  _Nec-cro-phil-ia_ , is when you have sex with corpses—"  
  
"I  _know_  what it means." His lips pressed into a grim line, casting a glance in Remo's direction. From the looks of it, his partner’s attention was returning to the battered book in his hands, but it wasn’t long before: “Wouldn't mind giving her something I like to call a Dirty Leftie."  
  
"You're a sick fuck, you know that?" But Remo remained unfazed.  
  
“You think she’s ever gotten one before?" Dylan released a long sigh and shifted in his seat; his partner would run out of steam eventually. "Do you even know what that is, son? That’s when you, uh...never mind." Remo scratched the back of his neck and flipped a page in his book. "Yeah, probably not. Those scholarly types...they don’t know a ‘corkscrew’ from a, well, y’know...a corkscrew.”  
  
_Not even gonna dignify that with a response._ It was little wonder why Gil had chosen him to lead over Remo's twenty some-odd years of experience. He knew better than to mention it, of course. There was enough estrogen in his life without having to listen to another one of his partner's hissy fits.  
  
The pervasive silence that began to settle over them was almost immediately replaced by the sound of tires ripping through underbrush, snapping twigs, and the distinct smell of cheap gasoline saturated the air. Remo stretched back in his crappy lawn chair to see Don and Ronny’s truck plow through the clearing.  
  
"About fucking time.” Dylan clambered to his feet and gave a stretch towards the sky, his spine snap, crackle, and popping back into alignment after having sat still for so long. Snatching up his .45, he switched the safety off and cleared the chamber before tucking the handgun into his waistband.  
  
"Ready to hit the road, Golden Boy?" Remo asked, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Just gotta tell me where I'm driving you today. The usual 'back home', or are you gonna actually  _do_ something with your sorry ass tonight?"  
  
_Golden Boy._ Dylan rolled his eyes and collected the rest of his belongings - couple of books, his cell, a tin of loose tobacco and rolling papers. He never brought much with him to the site and today was no different.  
  
"You already know the answer to that." Dylan threw his bag into the floor before climbing into the cab of Remo’s truck, his breath escaping in a small sigh. What else was there to do? He had a few days yet before he was scheduled to move into his new apartment, not that he'd brought much with him. Clothes, mostly. There was a small consignment shop in town that had a few pieces of furniture: dresser, bed frame, coffee table and couch. If Norma hadn't been so adamant about getting that mattress down to the dumpster, he might have had something to sleep on. For now, the threadbare sofa he was thinking of purchasing would have to do. Between cutting, drying, and guarding the fields, he didn't have much time to devote to more practical pursuits. "Just stop by the corner mart on the way, would ya? I want to grab case of beer.”  
  
And just like that, they were off.

* * *

The tension in the truck had grown routine by now, but that didn't make it any easier to sit through. The only disturbance in the seemingly frozen scene between them was the occasional nervous tapping of Dylan's foot and the sound of his slow, heavy breathing as he stared out his window, visibly detaching himself from Remo in every way.  
  
“How ‘bout some music?” Remo flicked the dial and scanned for a station, pausing when Alice in Chains'  _Rooster_ hit the speakers."Now _this_ is music." It wasn’t like the kid next to him was about to say anything, so he didn’t even wait for an answer; rather, by the chorus, he started to sing along.  
  
" _Yeah, they've come to snuff the Rooster...Yeah, here comes the Rooster...You know he ain't gonna die!"_    
  
His thumbs tapped against the steering wheel before he glanced in Dylan’s direction. "You know this song was written for Cantrell's father? Served in 'Nam, godbless'im." Remo crossed himself and lowered his head. "Nah, you don't care though." True as that was, however, he continued—if only for his own sake. "You know I served in the Cold War? 1983, Grenada...Before _your_  time," he added with a scoff.  
  
“That explains a lot,” Dylan smirked, his voice laden with sardonic humor. If this was Remo’s attempt at bonding, he was doing a shitty job. Or maybe he got a hard-on whenever he heard himself speak, which as a far more likely explanation. He brushed the loose tobacco off his lap and into the floorboards before popping the hand-rolled cigarette between his lips and lighting the end. Smoke curled in ringlets around his face as he exhaled, casting a look in Remo's direction. He wasn't all bad, Remo. A little grizzled, maybe. Had some issues. But then, who didn't? He had no interest in getting close, however. The only thing they had in common was their connection to Gil. As long as they did what was expected of them, he could have cared less about who his partner was. Like it or not, they were stuck together.  
  
"You know—Fuck you, alright?" Remo snapped, and the bitterness of his tone lingered in the air between them long after he looked away.  
  
How long the two of them drove in silence, Dylan couldn’t be certain. It wasn’t until Remo pulled up in the parking lot at the corner stop, however, that he decided to test the waters again. “You, ah, want anything?"  
  
"Grab me a carton'a Newports, how 'bout? And none of that Menthol bullshit neither. Get me the real deal. This should cover everything.” Remo tossed him a crumpled fifty dollar bill. “And, uh, keep the change."  
  
Dylan caught the fifty against his chest before shoving the wad into his pocket. "Yeah, okay." He paused with his fingers tucked around the door handle, his pulse suddenly in his throat. There, on the bench, was a figure that was becoming all too familiar these days. Frozen to the spot, he weighed his options. He could tell Remo to stop somewhere else, pray that he’d comply without asking too many questions. Or he could grow some balls and go talk to her. Unfortunately, he wasn’t given much of a choice.  
  
“...Hey, isn’t that the girl you’ve been sneaking around with?”  
  
“—Why don'tcha say hi for me? You know, sorry for trying to kill her. Just, don’t take too long. Ol’ Remo wants to get home, alright?”  
  
When he found his voice again, Dylan let out a scoff. "We're not  _sneaking around_. We're just—" though he trailed off. They were just...what?  Truth was, the town was only so big. Sooner or later, he was bound to run into her.  "I told you. I was just helping her out," he mumbled, staring at Bradley through his window a moment longer before finally getting out. "I'll be back."  
  
"Five minutes, peckerhead—I'm counting!" Damn...he knew this kid would be hard to get through to, and truth be told, Remo didn't wanteven a _remote_ relationship with him, but for God's sake...To be fair, his own sensitivities often skewed how he took others' views and remarks, and he recognized that (though whether he accepted it was another story entirely), but still...  
  
A sigh left his lungs: long, gruff, tired.  
  
Silence befell the truck, despite the low music, street sounds, and the dull groan of the old engine.  
  
It was Remo's first instinct to turn the radio up a few clicks, to recline his seat and prop his feet up and try to simmer down, but as quickly as he did, he sat back up; curiosity got the best of him (though in reality it was more of wanting something to goad his partner with later than an actual desire to know what was happening).  
  
Dylan lingered against the truck a second longer before dropping the cigarette and snuffing it out with the heel of his boot. Just walk over, say hello, and go inside. No big deal.   
  
Maybe she wouldn't even see him.  
  
What did he care that she was here?  
  
Why was he even avoiding her? Because of Norman?  
  
Yeah, maybe a little.  
  
He breathed in sharply through his nose, holding the air in his lungs as he stepped onto the curb. "Hey, ah, you doing alright?" He managed a small, but genuine, smile while he hovered on the spot, his eyes drifting towards the front door before meeting her gaze. Last he'd seen her, he was handing over the box of miscellaneous desk-toppers from her father's office. They didn't have a chance to discuss the fact that, hours before, Remo had been trying to put a slug in her head. But then, she seemed tougher than she looked. Maybe the experience hadn't scarred her for life.  
  
Bradley hadn't really anticipated seeing Dylan here...but at the same time, she'd secretly hoped she would. At this point in her life, he was the only person she really felt comfortable with, and something about his genuine care for her and her safety made her feel more secure than she did with anyone else, or even on her own.   
  
Times were rough, to say the least. Most people _twice_  her age had yet to go through as much as she had just this year alone, and with the more visible, more tangible consequences of the past few months' events came demons more hidden and personal as well. After all, it wasn't only her father's death she'd had to deal with; tangled in the fallout of her pseudo-romance with Norman and the shame of leading him on so heartlessly, plus the mess of her on and off relationship with Richard, and the danger she so regretted putting Dylan in, it seemed every thread of what little she had left was fraying and no one really cared to help her pull the fabric of her life back together.   
  
Sometimes she found herself sitting on the fence of ending it all while she still had some measure of her life left to take. In the end, she always decided to push it off one more day, one more day; hoping, in that small window of time, that she'd find something left to fight for.   
  
That something was always Dylan.  
  
She couldn't stop thinking about him, mainly because she knew he was the one person she'd always have by her. Richard was a dick to her, more often than not; everyone with eyes could see that Norman was slipping further and further through the widening cracks in his sanity; and all of her so-called friends from school were hardly people she could rely on for more than homework answers and mindless gossip to pass the time.  
  
With Dylan, she didn't have to worry about any of that.  
  
And that was why her face lit up a little as he approached, despite the sadness that lingered in her wide eyes. As he went to sit next to her, she scooted over a little to give him room and clasped her hands together in her lap, nervously casting her gaze down to the fabric of her fingerless gloves.   
  
(She'd never admit it, but she still got butterflies in her stomach when he was near.)  
  
"I'm...surviving." Bradley offered him a weak smile and shifted back a little closer to him.  
  
"Yeah, I know what you mean," he muttered softly, scraping the sole of his boot against the rough concrete to fill the silence.  
  
Surviving.   
  
Interesting word choice.   
  
Dylan wasn't much of a survivalist by nature. On the surface, he was your average twenty-something set adrift into the world; still prone to making mistakes; still searching for his niche; finding his purpose. He used to think, when he was younger, that things might have been different had Norma never pushed his father away. By the time she was gone, he was far too young to remember what normal felt like. There was the very rare Christmas present, even rarer birthday card, but the addresses changed so frequently, he could never tell where his mother might end up next. John Massett had done the best he could with what he had, which was never much. He shopped around the mommy market for a few years, got remarried twice and divorced both times. Favored Irish whisky and had a penchant for violence if provoked. They'd been in a few scraps before Dylan finally moved out and tried his hand at independence for a few years. Funny how things, as they so often did, came full circle.  
  
"If I find anything else that belongs to your dad, I'll be sure to pass it along. Haven't had much chance to look through the office since...you know. Um, Remo. The, ah, guy who was there. Says he's sorry. Guess we caught him off guard and all." Dylan cleared his throat, looking over at the parked truck a moment before returning to Bradley and lowering his voice. "Gil found out. Had a few...words...with Remo. I think that'll be the end of it, though. Pretty safe to say, I can't be bringing you back in but we shouldn't catch any blow-back from it." He chewed on his lip as he knotted his fingers together—more or less, because it made resisting the urge to reach out and touch her easier.   
  
"Thanks again for everything. I didn't mean to, you know...start problems or anything." Hearing that Remo was apologetic settled her nerves over the situation a little, however.  
  
The makings of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth as he gave his shoulder a shrug. “If it wasn't something that I could handle, I wouldn't have agreed to it."   
  
Her eyes met his, if only for a second, and then darted back to her hands. "I, um, I did want to talk to you, actually. About, uh, about your brother. My car's parked over there.”  Bradley nodded towards the curb. “Do you maybe wanna come back to my place with me? It's not like I have anything going on," she concluded with a small laugh, the ghost of a more sincere smile gracing her lips along with a gentle shrug of her shoulders. "If you have time, I mean. I don't want to get in the way of anything..."   
  
Dylan breathed in sharply through his nose, his body going rigid for a brief second when she mentioned his brother. What about Norman? And why did he need to go to her house to hear about it? While he mulled over whether or not to go, his eyes lifted to her face.   
  
_Think about this. **R**_ ** _eally_** _think about this, Dylan. Norman is your brother. Norman still has feelings for this girl. Do you want_ _to break that code?_  
  
For fuck's sake. He had enough self-control to keep his hands off of her. Norman didn't have to spell it out for him to know that Bradley Martin was off-limits. Period. So then, why was he nervous? Maybe it was the fact that she offered to give him a lift. If he had his bike, he could have left of his own accord rather than having to depend on her to carry him back to the motel. Why did it even matter? The fact that they were spending time together didn't have to mean anything. They were...friends?  
  
Sure. Friends.  
  
If Norman wanted to throw a tantrum over that, then he could get over it, right? Right.  
  
"No. I mean...I don't have anything planned. I'll...yeah, I'll go." He nodded once before squinting at the truck parked a few spaces away. "I've gotta run inside first and grab a couple of things. Wait here, yeah? It'll only take a second." As he rose to his feet, his hand grazed her shoulder. It was an innocent-enough gesture, one that left him inaudibly cursing under his breath as he headed into the convenience store.  
  
Bradley shivered lightly under his touch, even if it was just the fleeting brush of his hand. "Okay," she agreed as he stepped away.  
  
Rather than head for the cases of beer, he pulled a Tall Boy down from one of the refrigerated display cabinets to carry home with him.  
  
Did Bradley want anything?  
  
Should he have asked?  
  
He was still debating whether or not she'd want a beer as he stepped in line, deciding against it by the time he reached the register. Though he hardly doubted that she was straight-edge, somehow buying her a beer seemed all the more...wrong. It wasn’t even the fact that he’d be contributing to the delinquency of a minor; it was buying alcohol for a girl who already made him nervous. Nope. Best not to test his resolve.  
  
He bought a pack of Camels for himself and Remo's carton of Newport reds (none of that menthol bullshit), juggling the items in his arms as he made his way outside. It took a bit of finagling to prop open the door of the cab, freeing up one hand as he slid the carton across the seat to Remo. "Ah...I'm hitching a ride with Bradley." He lingered with his hand against the door frame, glimpsing at the girl in question before his attention fell on Remo.  
  
"Daaamn, 'ombre," Remo chuckled as Dylan explained his plans. "Quite a looker, that one. I dunno why you're always in such a pissy mood if you're banging  _that_ fine piece'a tail. Even if she is half your age, ya pedophile." Without a word of thanks, he grabbed a box of cigarettes and took one out to light. “I get the feeling you guys have a long night ahead of ya...”  
  
_I get the feeling you guys have a long night ahead of ya._  
  
Dylan was dumbfounded, whatever retort he had brewing in his head never quite reaching his lips. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again only to find that his tongue felt cumbersome in his mouth. What was the point? To try and defend himself against Remo was a losing battle; his partner was going to assume whatever he wanted to about his supposed relationship with Bradley, regardless of what he said to the contrary. Remo wasn't stupid. He highly doubted that the guy was going to go shooting his mouth off, especially around the warehouse. Gil finding out that he was hanging around the daughter of his old associate (the same employee who'd screwed him out of a hundred thousand and been burned alive because of his transgressions) was just asking for trouble. Remo knew this, which was exactly why he'd keep his mouth shut—if not for Dylan's sake, then to cover his own ass.  
  
"I-I'll see you...tomorrow morning?" he stammered, ignoring the sudden flush to his cheeks.  
  
"Yeah, bright and early...if you can manage.”  
  
Once Dylan got the confirmation, he grabbed his bag from the floorboards before slamming the door shut. As he watched the truck squeal out of the parking lot, he could have sworn he heard Remo guffawing through the window.  Son of a bitch.  Well, he'd already agreed to hear Bradley out. Nothing was going to happen. In a few hours, he'd be back at the motel, nursing a beer and bumming a joint off one of the resident stoners.   
  
Dylan signaled to Bradley with a jerk of his head, stuffing the brown-bagged beer down into his backpack as he followed her over to her car.  
  
What was the worst that could happen?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: We wrote this before I saw the season two premiere, so I'd say this is where our timeline deviation becomes important to remember. -Rooster

"My car's right by the meter. I, uh, really hope you don't mind doing this.”  Bradley combed her fingers through her hair, perched her sunglasses atop her head. “I can drive you home after, or whatever you need. I just...I really wanna talk somewhere more private, you know? Out in the open. I mean, anyone can hear and...it’s a small town, so..."

Dylan shoved his hands down into his pockets – another attempt to avoid temptation while he fell into step beside her. “No, yeah, I gotcha. It’s no problem.”

It was true; especially in such small communities, it was only a matter of time before the littlest bit of news spread like wildfire.

"Thanks again. Honestly, it—it means a lot that you're even still talking to me."

His hand lingered on the door as he watched Bradley cross over to her side. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He _could_ have blamed her if he wanted to, twisting up his brother's emotions the way she had. But it wasn't entirely her fault. Norman, for all his naivety, should have known better. She'd just lost her father, she felt vulnerable. And yeah, maybe it _had_ been Dylan's idea to push Norman into her bed...but in what world would that relationship have ever worked out? They were polar opposites. And Norman...well, he wasn't exactly the poster child for mental health. He cared about the kid, but he would have been lying if he said that he wasn't at least a little apprehensive these days, walking on egg shells around his younger brother to avoid anything that might set off a negative reaction. Bradley was probably at the top of that growing list of triggers...but, dammit, she was hard to stay away from.

He lowered himself into the passenger seat, buckled in, and caught a whiff of her scent—sweet, almost floral. It took everything he had to ignore the warm stirring deep within his chest. Why did she have to smell so good? And so goddamn tantalizing. An image flashed in his head: running his tongue along the base of her neck. It brought a slight flush to his cheeks and he quickly pushed it out of his mind. Instead, he cleared his throat and folded his hands in his lap like a Catholic schoolboy, staring straight ahead.

"I guess you've grown up here all your life, huh?" He chanced a glance in her direction. "Seems like the sort of place that'd suck you in, small town like this. Ever think about getting away?"

"Only all the time," Bradley admitted with a wistful sigh, the corners of her mouth twitching toward a sad smile at the idea. Her father's death drew the last shreds of small-town charm and innocence right out of White Pine Bay (the more she thought about it, however, the more she realized...it was never all that innocent to begin with, was it?). Her desire to just drive away and start over never felt stronger. But the machinations of their little slice of hell were the same as its clandestine pot industry; you didn't get to decide when to leave. You  _couldn't_.

After a beat. "—Do you?"

 _Did_ he?

That was sort of a loaded question, wasn't it?

What twenty-two year old in his right mind would want to live in a tiny port town in Oregon...of his own accord, no less?

There was the fact that his father had cast him out, for one. Norma was all he had left—and it had taken extensive research just to find her. He'd been bustled back and forth between his parents for as long as he could remember; he spent his summer months in Arizona, trying to survive the arid heat and his step-father's temper. He'd never liked Sam Bates...and for good reason, really. But it was more about the _idea_ of him. Norma had left his father to start a new life with an insurance salesman; she played the role of doting housewife to an abusive alcoholic who had no qualms with raising a hand against her in front of her two young boys.

And then, there was Norman. Perfect, selfless Norman. Innocent. Never did anything wrong. Norma treated him like a prince while Dylan became a nuisance. After a while, he stopped trying to win his mother's affection...but that didn't change the fact that he'd needed her when he first arrived. Who else did he have? He had no credit and nothing to his name other than an old motorcycle and what he could squeeze into a backpack. 

If he had anywhere else to go, he wouldn’t be here. But now, like it or not, he was stuck.

"It's not like I haven't thought about it. Leaving, you know? But once I started working for Gil..." he trailed off, watching her out of his peripherals before he gave a shrug. "My options are kind of limited.”

"Yeah, that's pretty much everyone." 

“Plus, I...well...I'm the only stable ground my brother's got." He left it at that. His relationship with Norman had always been strained but he couldn't, in good conscience, leave him with their mother for the rest of his life. She was too controlling, too involved. If he didn't try to put some distance between them, who would? They'd been making some progress for the past few weeks...well, up until the incident with Bradley. Then again, maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it would teach Norman to grow a pair and start standing up for himself instead of depending on Norma to fight his battles for him. That was the hope, anyway.

His eyes followed her hand as it reached across his lap to pop the glove compartment open, his heart skipping beat after beat for every second her arm rested against his leg. Bradley fumbled for her BIC lighter, realizing a little too late that she was making him tense. “Sorry,” she mumbled, quickly pulling away once she’d retrieved what she was after: a cigarette.

She'd only just started smoking recently; it was already proving effective in easing her nerves, especially during moments like this.

"Shit.” Her attention snapped back to the road as a car horn blared behind her. The light was green. Of course it was. Releasing a frustrated sigh, she popped the cigarette between her lips and jerked the car forward to shut the driver behind her up. 

Dylan watched her for a few seconds, about to offer help, but she finally achieved a tiny flame and lit up, one hand shaking on the steering wheel while the other jammed the lighter into her pocket.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry. Y-you don't mind if I do this in here, do you?"

"Heh. No, it's fine." He cleared his throat. "Really." He fished the pack out of his pocket and held it up to prove his point before breaking open the cellophane and pulling one out for himself.

Breathe in.

The smoke was already working its magic, the swarm of thoughts in his head subsiding to a dull buzz. Dylan cracked the window a little as he breathed out a heady sigh.

So much for playing it cool.

* * *

Once inside, he peeled off his work boots...only because he figured her mom wouldn't be too thrilled about seeing clay tracked over the expensive-looking rug in her foyer. 

"You want anything before we go up?" Bradley took off her coat and gloves, motioning toward the kitchen—ever the polite hostess. She had her mother to thank for that

“Just a Coke, if it’s alright?”

“Sure.” She turned toward the kitchen, but paused. “You can just head straight up to my room, if you want. Um, first door on your right. I don't _think_ my mom's coming home for a while,...but, just in case...”

“Y-yeah, sure. Uh, thanks.” Dylan stammered. He hesitated on the spot as his eyes trailed up the expanse of stairs.

One at a time, he began to climb. 

Standing in the center of her room, he was somewhat relieved to find that there weren't any stuffed animals or bubblegum pop music posters layering the walls; it only would have further driven home the point that he didn't belong in here. Instead, everything seemed relatively tasteful and conservative—feminine, but not the sort of pink and purple vomit found in a lot of teenage girls' rooms.

Drawing in a deep breath, he let his eyes wander around the personal effects strewn about her room. Pictures tucked around the glass of her mirror, thin curtains veiling the large window across from the door...

What _really_ caught his eye, though, was what he found atop her vanity.

The crème-colored surface was littered with empty Jack Daniels bottles; full and empty cigarette cartons; at least a dozen beer cans. Behind them, an assortment of six clear-orange pill bottles lined up along the wall. He picked one at random, turning it over to read the label. Anti-depressants, and strong ones at that. The others seemed to paint a similar picture, ranging from barbiturates to opiates. His gaze shifted to the photographs around the mirror frame.

Bradley was in most of them—albeit, a younger, happier version. Squeezed between a pair of friends at school; wrapped around the arm of a man he assumed to be her father; another, at a birthday party—twelve candles eternally flickering in the snapshot illuminated a beaming girl surrounded by family and friends.

A smile teased his lips at the sight, but it faded the more he realized... _that girl was gone._

“Here.”

Bradley’s soft voice called him from his thoughts, and he turned to see her arm extended toward him. He took the Coke can with a small _thanks_ , not sure if he should have felt guilty that he’d been going through her things or not. How long had she been standing there?

"You can sit, if you want," she offered in an attempt to break the tension. Tossing her jacket to the floor by her vanity, she sat on the bed and shifted over a little to make room for him.

 “Oh, um, yeah. Alright.” He peeled back the tab of his soda and took a swig as he sank down onto the edge by her feet, keeping both of his firmly planted on the floor. Tempted as he was to make a bee line for the front door...he was in too deep to back out now. “So...what’s up?"

"Can I ask you a question?" Bradley’s hands wrung nervously in her lap.

"Y-Yeah." His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat before trying again. "Yeah. Shoot." He should have picked the chair over by her vanity. Create some distance. How awkward would it have been to change seats now? Too awkward, he decided. Rather, he tried his best to keep from shifting his weight around too much, to make the mattress dip down too low. To avoid any sort of contact with her. Of course, if he thought about it  _too_ much, she'd notice.

 _Remain calm._ Pretend like there weren't a thousand and one thoughts raging through his head, the vast majority of them screaming at him to move just a little bit closer and bridge the gap between them. 

Dylan could easily see his unease reflected in her wide, doe-eyed stare. One of these days, he'd stop getting so flustered around her.

One of these days, but not now.

Again, she shifted her weight, tucking her knees underneath her.

"—Do I make you uncomfortable?"

Why?

Because she almost got him killed?

Because she slept with his brother and, somehow, still had the nerve to try her hand at a friendship with him?

It might have been different if he hadn't shown any interest in her, if he'd just lumped her into the 'oh, she's one of my brother's classmates' category and left it at that. Bradley was, by no means, innocent or entirely naïve. But there was something about her...it was in her eyes, pools whose depths even he couldn't quite fathom. She was mature in a way that most others her age weren't—and, perhaps, a large part of that stemmed from the fact that she'd seen tragedy first-hand. He certainly wouldn't have been able to imagine someone who'd been burned alive if he hadn't seen the medics pull her father out of his BMW...much less if that man had been his father. She was still reeling from all of it; that was only to be expected.

Dylan chewed on his lip, swiping his thumb across the cool condensation on the outside of his can. "Maybe a little," he murmured, giving his shoulder a shrug before his gaze lifted to her face. Well? It was the truth. She made him nervous. He had self-control – that wasn't the issue. The problem was...he didn't know if he wanted to repress those urges or not. Just being around her, alone, in her bedroom was enough to make him question every action and second-guess his decision making. And not even for the reasons that he  _should_. For one, she was still, technically, a minor. Then, there was the fact that his brother still had feelings for her, however misguided they were.

By all accounts, he should have just steered clear of Bradley Martin.

But the thing was...he couldn't.

Being around her....well...it was the only time he felt even remotely normal. Sitting here, his heart beating out of his chest, was normal in comparison to his daily life, but it barely scratched the surface of how he felt about her. She was more than just attractive to him; he'd had to consciously stop himself from staring since the first time they'd crossed paths. She was here—a constant. Popping up and churning the confusion that roiled around in his head whenever she was around. 

He took another sip of his Coke before setting the can on the floor, lacing his fingers together in his lap.

"Then why do you spend so much time with me? What—“ She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear only to have it fall right back in front of her eye. "—What do you think of me? I mean, you already said you don't think I'm crazy or pathetic or anything...but what  _do_ you think?" It was a dumb question to ask since Bradley was sure she already knew the answer, but there was enough tension between them already that it didn't really matter; awkward or not, asking it wasn't going to make or break anything here.

Where did their relationship stand? Almost afraid to know the answer, she bit down on her thumb nail and steadied her gaze on the floor. 

"I think you seem...lost, you know?” As he spoke, he studied her expression, as if searching for some hint that he’d given her the answer she was looking for. “I guess I can relate to that, in a lot of ways. It's got to feel pretty overwhelming, everything that's happened.”

“You’re telling me...” But her attempt to brighten up the atmosphere came with a crack in her voice that only emphasized the raw sadness behind her words.

Again, there was that tiny smile ghosting across her lips.

Insincere, but beautiful...and  _tempting._

“Thing is, there's not many people who  _can_ understand that sort of thing, or know what to say to make it better.” He shifted a little closer. “Actually, there probably  _isn’t_ anything that can be said to make it better.”

 _Stupid...so stupid_. Why couldn't he find the words he wanted, instead of tripping over his tongue and making a total fool of himself?

Try again.

“It just seems...I don't know. A lot of people around here...they're self-absorbed. Probably would help if you had someone to talk to who could just sit and listen without rushing to judgment. I mean...I don't know if I'd be much help, but..."

Against his better judgment, he leaned over, nudging her shoulder with his. "—I'm here. If you need me."

For a long time, silence prevailed.

Dylan watched her movements, the subtleties in the way she cast her gaze off, weighed his words with whatever else was going in her mind, and he couldn't help but glance back at the pill bottles on her vanity. This window, this eerie glimpse into her life...what did it all mean?

“Okay,” she finally breathed. “I just—I gotta get something off my chest. I-If I show you something...I need to know that no matter what, you’re not gonna tell other people on me, or think any different of me.”

Dylan shrugged, feeling his pulse in his throat. “W-we’re cool. I mean, yeah. It’s...” He steadied himself, and gave her a nod. “Your secrets are safe with me, Bradley.”

“You’re sure?”

He blanched.

What could be so bad?

“Positive.”

Bradley hesitantly rolled up her sleeves and there before him were two arms marred with cuts and scars of every length and depth, and from the heels of her hands, stark white bandaging wound up her forearms, anchored down by fraying medical adhesive.

He had to do a double take, and then another, just to be sure that what he was seeing was real, all while praying to God that it wasn't. Maybe if he shut his eyes, it would all go away. But sure enough, when he opened them, nothing had changed.

He didn't say anything, couldn't find the words. Rather, he bit his lip and let the steep reality of it all set in.

Bradley had slit her wrists.

_She tried to kill herself._

But it went beyond that. Maybe he would have been able to handle that fact alone, but...the smoking? The drinking? All those prescriptions for anti-anxiety and anti-depressant drugs? She was out of control, reckless...

“They kept me for three days at the hospital for observation, but...I put on an act for them. Made them think everything was okay.” Her lips parted for a disbelieving laugh, like even _she_ couldn't quite accept that what she was saying was really true. Dylan only watched with shock in his eyes.

“The doctors said I was depressed and maybe bipolar. Put me on all these drugs and,” she shrugged and let out a long sigh, “sent us on our way. Just like that.”

Her wide eyes searched his for some kind of answer,

“I—” Fuck. What was he supposed to say? That she was hurting was clear enough, but the depths of her pain were only just beginning to sink in. She was right; there _wasn't_  anything he could say that would make things any better.

“There’s more—that no one knows about,” she cut him off, hesitantly pulling her tank top up above her ribs to reveal a battlefield of pain and scarred flesh.

Etched into the lines on his face wasn't pity, or disgust. Instead, there was an intense sadness, twisting his heart into a vice grip and cutting off air to his lungs. Reaching down, he gingerly outlined a few of the lacerations. Some were deeper than others, almost jagged, pale white set at stark contrast with her sun-kissed skin. Others, more shallow. Thin, angry red lines carved into otherwise beautiful flesh. Dozens of them—so many, he’d lost count.

“Bradley...I—”

“You promised you wouldn't say anything.” Panic overtook her voice.

“Right, right, I know. I just...this is serious.”

“I know,” she droned.

“I don’t really know what to say…”

Bradley froze. She expected more than that. Answers, help,…something.

“I-I’m sorry for even showing you, then. I-I shouldn't have—”

“No, don’t be. I appreciate that you’re opening up to me. I mean, I care about you, you know? You—“ His eyes traveled over her face, and a chill crept up his spine. Her whole affect had changed. “You mean a lot to me.”

“You mean a lot to me, too.”

Her hand darted out of its own volition, cresting over his shoulder and lingering as if trying to draw strength from him. When he didn't immediately shrink away, she took it as his consent. Wrapping her fingers around his collar, she closed what little gap remained between them and crashed her lips against his, pleading for his silence.

He’d known that it was coming and yet it still managed to catch him off guard. There was a part of him that would have liked nothing better than to forget about his own skewed morality for even a few minutes, give in and just lose himself in the moment. But that wasn't the part of his brain that reacted. Rather than drag her forward when his hands settled against her shoulders, he shoved her back and held her out at arm’s length while he attempted to regain his faculties.

_What the hell just happened?_

"This...us. It's not going to solve anything." Dylan measured his words carefully, not wanting to give her the wrong impression. He wasn't  _pissed_ , he just...needed a moment to think.

…Damn.

He didn't have to ask _why_ , didn't need to. But he wasn't about to give her some long, hackneyed lecture either. Instead of saying anything, he slid his other hand into Bradley's, tugging her toward him before his arms enveloped her, holding her tightly against his chest.

He could have taken her mind off of things, given her a distraction. Made her feel appreciated, or needed. He could have fucked her pain away—but how long before she came crashing down again? How long before she resorted back to dragging a blade across her skin just to feel...anything? 

Her neck craned up, like she was about to try again.

He turned his head away.

See? Self-control.

"I can't, Bradley. Not...not now. Not like this."

He couldn't believe he was saying it. His stilted breath fell in a rush against her temple, squeezing his eyes shut a moment to clear his head. God, he wanted her. _Needed_  to feel that tantalizingly hot skin pressed flush with his. Her breath in his ear, nails digging into his shoulders. 

It didn't make him a bad person for wanting her, did it? Okay, maybe a little selfish. His feelings toward her were about the only thing keeping his hormones at bay.

“I see.” Her voice held a fair amount of poison. She resolved to look elsewhere—anything, really, to keep from meeting his eyes. A speck on the wall held her attention for all of a second before she unfurled herself from him with a pointed shove.

He didn't want her? Fine.

_Deep breaths._

Damage control mode initiated. "Wait—look, I'm not going anywhere, Bradley. Whether you want me or not, I'm here. I can make you feel better now, but it's not going to take the pain away." He swallowed hard, tilting his head while he searched for her gaze. "If you want to talk, we'll talk. If you don't want to say anything, that's fine, too. Just don’t shut me out.”

“Whatever. I need some air,” Bradley muttered, deftly ignoring him while she snatched up her smokes from the vanity. Her chest was tight, her lungs unable to expand. They burned as she barreled down the stairs and out the door. As soon as the autumn air hit her face, she gasped out, leaning heavily against the wrought-iron banister while she choked back a sob.

God, what was wrong with her?

* * *

Dylan didn't follow her outside right away. He took his time collecting his things; disposing of the empty Coke can in the kitchen wastebasket; putting on his boots and lacing them up. Maybe if he just snuck out the back door, avoided her altogether.

No. He refused to just run away. She could be pissed at him all she wanted to, at least it was more productive than feeling sorry for herself. The fact of the matter was, whether she wanted to admit it or not, she needed him; if not him, then _someone_ to depend on. Otherwise, that anger was going to consume her whole.

When he finally stepped onto the front porch, he cleared the lump lodged in his throat before sinking down onto the stone steps beside her. 

"I’m going to tell you something that I've never told anyone before.” He spoke without looking in her direction, fidgeting on the step as he pieced his thoughts together.

“I must have been eight or nine..." He paused, digging around in his rucksack before procuring a dimebag and rolling paper. "My dad was a real piece of work. Not a bad guy, I guess, all things considered. But I don't think he ever fully got over Norma leaving, you know? Had his moments before. Times where he drank a little too much and I'd have to tuck him in because I couldn't move him from the couch. He was stocky. Worked with his hands most of his life." As he talked, he began the process of breaking up the nuggets, dumping the pile into his skin, and twisting the joint with an easy roll of his fingertips. After lighting it, he took a drag before passing it to Bradley.

"He'd just gotten divorced from Step-Mom One, I think. So yeah...I must have been closer to nine. Report cards had just come in. I wasn't doing that great in math...it was a rough year, I guess. Anyway, I brought my grades to my dad. He was in one of his down swings that night, got raked over the coals by his boss. He wasn't too happy that I was almost flunking most of my classes. And...I figured he'd probably had a few drinks after he got off of work, you know? I could smell it on his breath. He took out his belt...had this silver tip on the end. Beat me until I had welts the size of baseballs on my back. Caught me in the cheek on one of his swings..." He absently pointed to a faint scar just beneath his eye.

"After he sobered up, he apologized. Did the whole 'I was wrong' spiel, buttered me up with movie nights and action figures...But sooner or later, it was bound to happen again. Visiting my mom during the summers wasn't much better, but Sam never really hit me or Norman. No, he saved that for Norma." 

"I-" The single syllable hitched in her throat and she released it on a quiet breath, casting her gaze far off in front of her. "I...You're—I never would have expected..."

His gaze flickered to her as he chewed on his lip. "You're not the only one who has a reason to feel vulnerable, Bradley. It never just...goes away. But I'm living proof that you can move past it. And...now that you know one of my secrets..." The faintest trace of a grin ghosted over his lips, leaning against her a moment before he sat up straight once more. "...We're even." 

Sucking feeling back into her veins from the joint, Bradley shuffled her foot a little on the step, silently debating something before drawing out a small pencil sharpener razor from between the sole and frame of her shoe. Eyes rimmed in swollen red from the tears spilling down her face, she dared to glance over at him, just for a second. But when their gazes met, she couldn't seem to draw hers away. 

"Here...take it," she breathed, flipping the tiny blade over and over between her fingertips before reluctantly handing it over to him. He studied the dry blood on the edge; it told him more than words could ever say. "It’s not the only one. I-I feel like you know that, though. Just..." With the breeze that passed through the trees came a surge of cold air that attacked her bare arms and made goose flesh rise from every inch of skin. "Get rid of it somehow. It's getting dull, anyway." 

His eyes flashed to her face before he tucked the blade into his pocket to dispose of later. 

Afraid to even glimpse in his direction again, Bradley stared out down her driveway, passed the blunt back, and shut her eyes. "My dad would be so ashamed of me." On the first few syllables, her tone faltered, but by the last it was cracking over every word she spoke. "God," she tried to laugh away her tears, and wiped her eyes with the edge of her hand. "How do you do it?” She traced a finger over the bandage on one of her wrists. “You’re so strong...I would have just given up then and there, jumped off the roof or something.

“I mean...Losing my dad was such a huge shock. My mom started to drink again and she doesn't come home for days at a time. She had problems like that a long time ago, before she knew my dad or my dad even knew Gil, probably. Now she comes home and she can't even walk, so I have to help her upstairs and into bed. And sometimes she brings home these weird, creepy men and...it's just too much...but...I can't...begin to imagine what it’d be like if I was a kid, having to do this." She paused to release a captive breath. "And now, my dad?—those letters from that 'B' woman?...I guess it just seemed easier to, you know, give up.”

Dylan leaned with his back against the ledge behind him, sucking smoke into his lungs. He held it in before it expelled forth of its own accord; coughing faintly, he drew in another hit before passing it back. "I didn't get the chance to know your dad, so I can't speak on his behalf...but...if he's even half the man you say he is...he wouldn't look at you any differently. He wouldn't feel ashamed. Neither should you.” His eyes drifted to the step beneath his feet, absently kicking at a loose stone. “I’m not that strong, Bradley. There are times...well...it doesn't get any easier, I can tell you that much. But that’s why you cling to what you've got. The people in your life...they’re what matters. I wish I could tell you how to make that pain go away, or how long you have to hurt before you start to go numb.”

Bradley only shrugged.

"The night Norman came by and I had to let him down like that, I dunno...everything just came into perspective and I don't even remember what was going on in my head...but I knew I wanted out. Of everything. Just...done. I think a part of me just wanted to be with my dad. He always knew how to solve everything...every problem. As a kid I used to look up to him like he was some kind of...god, or something...and I guess I never grew out of that." With her fingernail, she idly picked at the scab forming at the lip of a gash on her upper arm, numbing the sting of the words leaving her lips.

Dylan’s brow furrowed; he wanted to reach out and take her hand, or wrap his arm around her, but he figured it might be counter-intuitive. She was opening up as much as she could with all the shit that had been piled on her shoulders. It was a burden, to be sure. He didn't, however, want to distract her when she was getting the things off her chest that had probably been bottled up since she'd found her father.

"I just wanna be with him." 

Without warning, she buried her face in her arms and collapsed into tears.

Dylan fell silent as her body heaved with sobs, reaching over and resting his hand between her shoulder blades. He wasn't sure what to say, so he didn't say anything. Rather, he let her cry, occasionally sweeping his hand across her shoulders, or smoothing out her hair. He couldn't blame her for wanting to let it all go, just give into the pressure and find some sense of release. It would have been easy. But the fact that she had so many scars told him something else: despite everything, she was still hesitant to cut any deeper. Deep down, even she knew that ending her life wasn't the answer. It was a precarious ledge she was standing on, but she was still clinging, still fighting to keep from falling over the edge. 

How much time had elapsed, neither of them were completely certain. A few minutes? An hour? When Bradley finally looked up again, her cheeks were stained and blotchy. Tentatively, she met his gaze, relieved that he wasn't giving her a look of pity.

"So...” She cleared her throat, quickly wiping at her cheeks. “—What're you gonna do? It's getting late, and...I mean, don't you have to get home or something? If Norman needs you..."

"Yeah...probably should." He chewed on his lip, mulling over a thought before he shifted to face her. "Look, I—" He took a deep, steadying breath before he continued. "If you...if you ever need to get away...I'm here. You've got my number. I won't be staying at the motel for much longer...I'm getting my own place. You're welcome to...er...stay, you know? If you feel like you need an out, or whatever. I don't mind. I've got a couch and you can take my bed...well, once I find one." Dylan smirked, though it didn't last long.

Bradley tried to force one back at him.

"Thank you.  _So_ much." Just at the pure kindness he extended to her, she could have burst into tears again.

Picking himself up off the step, he waited for her to stand. When she did, she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, resting her head on his chest. "I really appreciate you coming here. And being so, you know, cool...about everything. I really... _really_...just...appreciate it," she covered her falter with a small smile and a dismissive laugh. Lifting her head, she took a moment to regain some sense of composure. “Do you...do you need a ride home? I don’t mind driving you...”

"Nah, don't worry about it. Honestly, I could use the walk."

"Okay. Then I'll talk to you...when I talk to you, I guess.”

Dylan teetered on the spot a second longer as his hand lifted to cup her cheek. Should he say something more? Or maybe...kiss her? To say that he wasn't tempted would have been a lie.

Not now.

His hand fell away from her, adjusting the strap of his rucksack as he took a step back. “Yeah,” the word escaped in a breath, “I’ll see you.”

Sinking down onto the step and lighting up another cigarette, Bradley watched his ascent up the driveway before he rounded the corner and vanished from sight.


	3. Chapter 3

_Clink._

Bradley’s tiny razorblade clattered to the cold asphalt. Dylan crushed it with the toe of his boot without a second thought – wasn’t content until the edge of it chipped against the pavement. The darkening sky made it almost impossible to see the gleaming metal, only catching flashes of it whenever heat lightning streaked across the clouds above him.

Much as he tried to put himself in her position, he couldn’t. It didn’t make any sense.

He’d seen hardship; hell, he could have written the book on making it through tough times. Problems, trouble, shitty situations—they seemed to gravitate toward him, no matter where he went. But never, not even for a second, had he ever felt so overwhelmed that hurting himself crossed his mind.

It made him sick to think that this was what Bradley felt she had to resort to; the angry red gashes that littered her body were burned into his retinas, reappearing every time he blinked.

What made him even sicker was the realization that he’d promised her his silence.

Norma wasn’t exactly in the running for Mother of the Year, so perhaps he was a little biased on the mom front. But Bradley was a danger to herself. If left to her own devices, she’d try to cut again. And again. Until those nicks and scrapes weren’t enough. Until she found relief some other way.

He _cared_ about her. It was the only reason he even considered going back on his word; telling Mrs. Martin, opening her eyes to the inner turmoil her daughter was going through...short of dragging Bradley to a psychiatrist himself, it seemed like his only option.

As he walked, the debate raged at the back of his mind. He could live with her hating him if it meant that she got the help she needed, couldn’t he?

* * *

 

"--Okay.  _Fine_. I understand. We'll be down first thing in the morning."

Norma’s thumb swept across the screen, ending the call and Romero's informal interrogation. Bile rose at the back of her throat as her fingers clenched around the phone in her hands, half-tempted to fling it across the room.

She hated this godforsaken town and everyone in it. There was no end in sight. She bought a hotel infested with stoner tenants—although, really, some business was better than none at all. Even then, it could very well fold even before the bypass was connected and what little hope she had of entertaining guests withered away completely. The mess with Zack Shelby; that ‘Abernathy’ creep. And now, the town was abuzz with rumors that Norman had something to do with Miss Watson's death.

 _Couldn't she go a goddamn_ week _without someone stink-eyeing her in a checkout line?_

The investigators were close to wrapping up the crime scene at Blair Watson's house. Three sets of fingerprints had been found. There was some evidence of a struggle. They were still trying to find the source of the other two sets—one, obviously, had belonged to the late teacher. Cotton gauze found in one of her waste bins had spots of blood on it that didn't belong to her. Whoever had killed her had access to her home; there was no sign of forced entry. Without any other leads, Romero wanted to rule Norman out as a suspect.

Apparently, these days, law enforcement acted on rumors before hard evidence.

She’d spent the past few days wracking her brain, trying to find a logical explanation for her son’s erratic behavior. Norman said that he'd seen Miss Watson the night she was murdered; she'd offered him a ride and he'd refused. But then...he had a cut on his nose; seemed a little out of it when he'd shown up after the winter formal; even admitted that he didn't remember much after leaving the dance. 

What if...

No.  _No_. Norman had nothing to do with any of this.  

Her thoughts splintered when she heard the front door open downstairs. Dropping her phone onto the bed, she slid on her slippers and wrapped her robe tighter around her waist before peeking out into the hallway.

“Dylan?”

“—Yeah?”

Relief settled the pounding of her heart in her throat. Taking the stairs two at a time, she met him in the foyer.

"Little late, don't you think?"

Dylan rolled his eyes at her.

"It's been a long day, Norma. Save your concerned mother routine for someone who needs it. Besides, ten o'clock is hardly  _late_ ,” he mumbled as he dug the warm beer out of his rucksack.

She bit her tongue, trying her best to ignore her son's scathing sarcasm. Rather, she grabbed him by the arm and tugged him away from the threshold that led into the parlor. "I need you to do me a favor tomorrow. Go down to the school and pick up your brother's assignments for the rest of the week? I'm keeping him here until all this... _shit_...blows over."

Dylan cast a fleeting glance over his shoulder. The glow from the living room told him that his brother was still awake, likely watching another black-and-white on TCM. What decade did Norman think he was from, anyway? "He can't just avoid everyone forever. And you can't protect him, Norma, if he's found guilty."

"He. Isn't." Her clipped tone cut to the quick, her fingers squeezing tightly around Dylan's bicep before she released him. "He had nothing to do with what happened to that teacher. He's different, that's the only reason anyone's giving him a hard time and when they realize that he's innocent, they're the ones who are going to look foolish. They've been pointing fingers since we got here, and I'm not going to let them shift the blame to Norman. Just do as I ask, Dylan. I'll home-school him if I have to." 

"Fine,” he muttered as he cracked open his beer and took a swig. "I'll stop by after work."

" _Thank_  you." Norma pursed her lips a moment before skirting past him and breezing into the living room. "Norman, honey?"

Norman had been staring blankly at his phone for the better part of the past half hour, having read the words over and over again.

**[10:10 PM] thanks again for tonight. youre the first person i feel like i can really open up to <3**

And, as if to add insult to injury:

**[10:11 PM] omg norman, i didnt mean to text you. just ignore that. im SO sorry!!!**

It wasn’t until he heard Norma’s voice from the foyer that he quickly tucked the device under a throw pillow. “Yes, mother?”

She plastered on a smile as she sank down onto the couch beside him, one hand resting against his knee as the other gently combed through his hair. "I just got off the phone with Sheriff Romero.” Norman’s expression remained passive.

“—He wants us to come down to the station tomorrow morning to take a blood sample from you. He says that it's  _just_ a basis for comparison, nothing more. They might want to ask you a few questions." She managed to keep her voice on an even keel, her fingers stilling in her son's hair.

"Sweetheart, I need you to tell me about that night at the dance...if you happened to remember anything since then?" Norma tilted her head a little, offering him a reassuring smile. "I know that you had  _nothing_ to do with that poor woman’s death. It was just awful, and gruesome, and people are apt to toss blame around simply because we’re not from around here. I just need to know so that I can protect you, Norman. I'll be keeping you out of school for the next week, at least, until things start to quiet down again."

"I told you, mother; all I remember is Emma leaving me at the dance and Miss Watson pulling over, saying that she was gonna drive me home...”

His breath caught and he smoothed his hands over his corduroy slacks. “Next thing I recall, I was running down the road in the rain, and...that's it." His eyes scanned her face for a reaction; she didn't look pleased with his answer. “You know I would tell you if anything happened. I just—don't remember it too well."

"No, of course you don't. Why would you? I'm sure it's nothing to worry about." Norma's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before it spread across her lips like butter. Panic mode hadn't been triggered just yet—and, really, why would she have any reason to fret? Norman was a bright boy, did well in school; he was mild-mannered and charming. Surely Romero would see that. He'd just lost his father a few months ago...never mind how that 'accident' had happened. 

Oh god. These blackouts...had that night been one of them? If he didn't remember...was it because nothing had happened, or because he was trying to forget? 

Between the taxidermy and the regular trips to Blair Watson’s gravesite, it was only natural to feel concerned about Norman’s obsession with all things macabre. Norman was a curious boy. _Teenager_ , she corrected herself. He should have been out with friends, breaking curfews, falling in love...or whatever it was that kids his age did these days. He was sensitive...maybe it was all just a phase that he was going through.

She desperately hoped so.

Sensing her trepidation, Norman gave his mother a smile, though it was unclear whether he meant to reassure her...or himself. “Do you think tomorrow, after we see Romero, you could take me out driving? I have my exam coming up, you know. I could use the practice.” Yes, change the subject. Get her mind off the case. Maybe if she was thinking about something else, she wouldn’t feel so compelled to worry about him.

Her face brightened, patting his knee excitedly. “Sure we can! Tomorrow is supposed to be so lovely, too—it’ll be perfect for a drive up the coast. Maybe take the scenic route? Oh! We can stop at that new mall in Florence. Wouldn’t that be nice? You could do with a sturdier winter coat. And we can—“

“—Look at used cars?”

“I don’t know about _that_. You’ll need to get your license first.” Exasperation etched across Norman’s features. “ _Besides_ , you can borrow my car to run errands in for now. We’ll see how well the business does in the coming months...”

"Oh, alright. I suppose it can wait.” For a fleeting instant, he seemed pleased with himself; crisis temporarily averted. That was, until he spotted Dylan out of the corner of his eye.

_Thanks again for tonight._

His jaw clenched.

“If you don't mind, mother, could I have a word with _Dylan_?" Spite dripped from every syllable of his brother's name. "—It'll only take a second.”

Norma’s eyes drifted over to where Dylan stood, leaning with his shoulder against the archway. "Mind? Not at all." She ran her fingers through Norman's hair and planted a kiss to his temple before getting to her feet. "We had meatloaf for dinner. I'll just warm you up a plate, Dylan." Without another word, she headed towards the kitchen.

Norman watched her go with more than just a loyal son's love in his eyes, steeling himself before his gaze fixated on his brother.

Dylan took another sip of his beer before crossing the room and taking a seat in the wing-backed chair across from his brother. That Norman was glowering at him hadn't escaped his mind, though it hardly fazed him anymore. These days, it was a toss-up when it came to which mood he might find his younger brother in.

"Something on your mind?" 

"I know what you're doing with Bradley." His eyes narrowed into slits, words faceted with disdain, even malice. "—And I think it's wrong."

It was clear he ached to say more...but he curbed his brewing tirade to give Dylan a chance to explain himself.

“What are you talking about?” Dumbfounded, Dylan set his beer down on the coffee table between them. Scooting forward in his seat, he fixed Norman with a stony glare. “There’s nothing going on between us, Norman.”

“Oh really? Because I find that hard to believe.”

“Even if there was, weren’t you the one who said that you were over her? Which is it? Are you or aren’t you? I’m sorry if you can’t stand the thought that she doesn’t want anything to do with you, but that’s not my fault so don’t go off acting like it is.” Dylan washed down his frustration with another swallow of beer. “I can’t help it if she decides to strike up a conversation with me when I’m out in public.”

“No, but you _can_ choose to ignore her.” Norman let the first barb go, visibly bristling as he shifted towards the edge of his cushion.

“Not everyone’s an antisocial piece of work like you, Norman. Christ, it’s no wonder people think you offed that teacher.”

The edges of Norman’s vision started to blur; he wrung his hands in his lap in an attempt to keep focused on the present. “And apparently family means so very little to you, that you’d go after a girl—five years your junior—that you know I was intimate with. Or maybe sloppy seconds is your thing.”

Dylan sprung to his feet, positively fuming. “Don’t you dare call her that.”

“Oh, don’t be too offended. She’s probably already slept with half of the school, anyway. I can tell you, she wasn’t exactly tight when we—”

“—I’m warning you, Norman.”

A mirthless smile slithered across his lips. Clearly, he’d struck a nerve and he intended on taking advantage of the situation. “Well? I just thought I should warn you before you go getting your hopes up.”

“Believe me, Norman, if I wanted her, I wouldn’t need your permission. But unlike you, I don’t take advantage of vulnerable girls. I’ve got a little more self-respect than that.”

“If nothing happened then why did I just get a text from her saying _thanks for tonight_?”

Dylan froze. His mind scrambled to make sense of it.

“Well obviously she meant to send it to someone else—”

“Yeah. You.” Dylan ran a hand over his mouth, biting his lip to keep from saying anything rash. Norman’s eyes taunted him long after his words dissipated into the air between them.

“I don’t need this.”

He could see Norman stand up in his peripheral vision and held his breath; was this about to become another episode?

“Your relationship with her is vulgar and dishonest and based entirely on revenge and you know it!”

“So what if it is!?” Dylan threw his hands up as he walked away, refusing to spare a glance in his brother’s direction. “Get over it, Norman. She’s done with you. _Move on_ , for God’s sake.”

Norman watched him go, heard his heavy footfalls as he ascended the stairs. His hands shook even after he sank down onto the couch. Dylan’s response, or lack thereof, told him all that he needed to know.

His fingers probed beneath the pillow beside him, retrieving his phone.

His thumb hovered over Bradley’s picture, the one she’d taken when she programmed her contact information. He couldn’t help but imagine those smiling lips ghosting over his brother’s face; the arms that were once wrapped around him now clinging to Dylan while she called out his name.

 _Thanks again for tonight_.

Without warning, he spiked the phone onto the floor, stomping his foot down on top of it for good measure.

As his vision went black, all he could think about was how much he wanted to wipe that smile off of her face.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I'm not into trigger tagging but since this chapter involves nonconsensual sex with a minor, I'd feel crappy not saying something in advance. Read at your own discretion. -Rooster

**_One new message from: Dylan Massett_ **

**[8:10 AM] Hey, I’m thinking you should try to steer clear of Norman for a while. He’s pretty pissed that I’m still hanging out with you and I just wanna make sure he doesn’t take it out on you or anything.**

**[11:01 AM] np. thanks for the heads up**

**[11:15 AM] Don’t mention it.**

From where she sat at the bottom of the hill, she could see him tinkering with his motorcycle; head low, eyes squinting in silent contemplation as his fingers worked the nuts and bolts loose before dropping them onto the cement beside him.

How long had she been sitting there?

Her gaze flashed to the digital clock on her dashboard. One hour and eleven minutes.

_Just go up there and talk to him._

The cigarette had been pressed between her fingers for so long that the cherry had burnt it down to a stub with the ash still clinging to the filter for dear life; she didn’t notice until it fell onto her dress. “Shit.” She blew the ashes off, though they still managed to leave gray streaks on the pale blue chiffon, regardless of how much she tried to smudge them away.

As she lit up another, she returned to her phone;

**[12:32 PM] do u think gil would know something abt my dad?**

**[12:37 PM] Is this a hypothetical or are you actually considering talking to him?**

**[12:59 PM] hypothetical**

**[1:02 PM] If he knows anything about your dad, I doubt he’s going to tell you.**

**[1:17 PM] ...why?**

**[1:52 PM] Just let it go, okay? Digging too deep...you won’t like what you find.**

Bradley gritted her teeth, dropping her phone onto the seat beside her.

_What did he know, anyway?_

She wasn’t naïve; she knew what sort of business her father was in, and she knew that somewhere along the line, her father had done something that _really_ pissed someone off.

Was that _someone_ Gil?

The question had festered at the back of her mind for weeks now. The fact that Dylan was so adamant about putting those thoughts to rest told her one thing: Gil Turner had something to hide.

She let out an exasperated sigh, dropping her head onto the steering wheel – then immediately wished she hadn’t when her car horn blared to life.

 

 

Gil’s hand went for the Desert Eagle tucked into his waistband and he quickly scrambled to his feet. He didn’t recognize the car parked at the end of his driveway—hell, he hadn’t even noticed it—but a few steps out of his garage and he got a clear view of the pretty little thing in the driver’s seat.  

He pursed his lips, letting out a measured breath before gesturing for her to come over. She seemed a little hesitant at first, lingering with her door open before finally climbing out and making the trek up to his house.

“You’re Jerry’s kid.”

“Mmhmm.” Bradley nodded with a sweet smile, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She stopped short, keeping some distance between them. “Can I ask you some questions about him?”

Gil scoffed. “Forget it, Bridget.”

“—Bradley,” she corrected.

“ _Bradley_. Look, your father was a real shitheel...scum of the earth. For all I care, your _daddy_ can rot in hell.”

Her eyes narrowed on him. “That’s why he had to get burned alive?”

“I won’t make any apologies – I wasn’t exactly fond of him. Bastard made a habit of pissing people off. Didn’t think it was possible, but I figure someone hated him more than I did.” Gil glanced back at his motorcycle; he could feel her unrelenting gaze burn a hole straight through him. He let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not gonna stand around and chat with you; this isn’t worth my time. I got things to do. We through, here?”

Bradley took a quick step forward and caught his shoulder before he could walk away. “I can _make_ it worth your time.”

He hesitated.

_Got him._

“C’mon—you can take ten minutes out of your day to answer some questions for a lost girl missing her daddy, can’t you?” With an arch of her eyebrow and a less-than-innocent pout, she smoothed the invisible wrinkles of her dress; tugged the bodice down a little to reveal just enough cleavage to spark his interest.

Gil’s face flushed and after a moment’s contemplation, he returned her smile.

“Come on in."

* * *

 

“Do you drink?”

“ _Please_.” Bradley rolled her eyes.

With his back turned, a smirk played across his lips; he pulled down a second tumbler, adding three fingers of bourbon to the glass before replacing the stopper on his antique decanter. “Hope you like it neat.”

She remained near the door a moment, swishing the amber liquid around before tossing it back in one fell swoop—an attempt to settle her nerves. The alcohol hit her gut hard, but the burn that remained was enough to numb the voice at the back of her head...the one that urged her to leave. Bradley helped herself to another draw of bourbon, this time filling it to the brim while Gil made himself comfortable on the couch.

“So what can you tell me about my dad? Did he have enemies?”

“Damn. You get right down to business, don’t you?” His brow quirked upward; the corners of his mouth twitched behind the rim of his glass as he patted the cushion beside him. “Why don’t you join me?”                       

Bradley was acutely aware that his eyes were on her, following her movements as she made a bee line towards him. The smile she gave him was meant to be tempting, even going as far as resting her hand against his knee once she settled in beside him. “So did he?”

“Have enemies? Yeah, I guess so. Kinda hard _not_ to make ‘em in this line of work.”

She dropped her shoulder slightly, allowing her knitted shrug to fall to her elbow while she folded one leg over the other—the position gave her the opportunity to run the edge of her foot along the side of his calf. “You said before that he had a habit of pissing people off. So what made this time any different?”

“Stepped on the wrong guy’s toes on the wrong day, I guess.” He swallowed hard, sinking down onto the cushion a little further as her hand grazed the inside of his thigh. Fuck.

Bradley tilted her head, her eyes searching his. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“And if there is?”

_Time to play it up a little more._

She took a swig of her bourbon before leaning across him to set her drink down on the end table, making sure to linger a little longer than was absolutely necessary. “Since my dad died, I’ve just felt so _depressed_. I’ve been trying to piece things together, you know? You two used to be so close...I figured if _anyone_ knew what went wrong, _you_ might.” As she spoke, her hand trailed up his arm to his shoulder, teasing the short hairs at the back of his neck.

“You _know_ what happened.”

“Not the whole story.” She turned to better face him, biting her lip as their gazes met. “Why don’t you tell it to me?”

Without a second thought, she moved to straddle his lap, bracing herself with her hands against his chest. Arching her eyebrow, she dared him to make his move.

“Well why don’t youlose _this_?” He lowered the little black shrug off her shoulders, letting his hands linger at the ridge of her collarbone to gauge her reaction.

Despite herself, her heart began to throb in her throat. She never took into consideration the scars that littered her arms. Would he notice? Would he try to say something? Fighting the instinct to pull away, to grab his wrists and stop him, she managed to keep her cool.

His eyes lingered on her supple breasts with unchecked desire. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, to the point where she could barely hear his heavy breathing for the pounding behind her eardrums; her thoughts raced, _screamed_ for her to stop, to leave. And yet she remained, frozen on the spot

Calloused fingers skirted her ribs, trailed up as his hands encircled her small frame to unhook her bra. Her lips parted to speak but the words got tangled on her tongue, fighting to break free; a single tear welled up in the corner of her eye.

This was wrong.

 _Deep breaths._ She blinked it away and forced a smile, resumed her act, clinging to the mantra: **this is the only way he’ll talk**.

“Wait—” She grasped his wrist, holding it an arm’s length away. “First you gotta tell me something about my dad.” Gil’s breathy chuckle caught her off guard.

“You just don’t give up, do you?”

“I came here for answers and that’s what I’m gonna get.”

“I can see the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” The look in his eyes made her uneasy, muscles poised to recoil. “You’re stubborn. Just like your father.”

He twisted her hand off his arm and grabbed her sides in one forceful motion. “But I bet that won’t last long.”

In an instant, the gravity of what she was doing crashed down on her; strangled by panic, she tried to squirm away but he held fast, his nails digging into her flesh.

Before she could fully process what was happening, she was looking up at him from the flat of her back, his hips pinning her down to the couch; she could feel his bulge against her stomach, tried her best to rear up and knee him in the groin but it only served to make things worse. The weight of his hand crushing her throat made her squeal as she thrashed, grabbing at his arms; clawing at his fingers; trying to push him off but it was like hitting a solid brick wall.

As his free hand explored her breasts, she squeezed her eyes shut, as if the situation was a nightmare that she could just will away. Maybe when she opened them again, he’d be gone and she’d find herself back in her bed. Somewhere. Anywhere but here.

Her thoughts raced. Her phone. It was still in her car. Goddamn it. Why hadn’t she listened?

She tried to swallow and couldn’t; with her windpipe compressed, the edges of her vision were starting to blur.

Bradley could barely make out the sounds happening around her. The lowering of a zipper; the rustling of fabric as he bunched her dress up around her hips; the strangled cries that ripped through her throat but felt foreign to her ears.

The hand clasped over her mouth muffled her screams; kicking, writhing...it didn’t do her any good. Raw pain consumed her, wracked her frame the second he entered her. Tears cascaded down her cheeks and yet, in that moment, she stopped resisting.

He’d won.

She turned her head away from him, her faraway gaze settling on the door.

_One-one thousand. Two-one thousand._

The seconds felt like an eternity, dragging her into the abyss with them. By the time _he_ was finished, all she could feel was sore. Her head; her legs. She could feel the bruises starting to blossom around her throat once the pressure from his hand was gone, though she refused to look at him as he got up.

“Come back around if you want some more answers, kid.” His smirk dripped from his voice.

She was vaguely aware of him moving around the living room; fastening his slacks; refilling his glass at the bar; and then, the faint slam of a door further inside the house followed by water rushing through the pipes.

Only then did she move a muscle, biting down hard on her lip to stifle a hiss as she crawled to her feet.

Her lungs were constricting. She needed air. God, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She staggered over to the door and threw it open, disoriented by the darkness that greeted her.

She made it halfway down the hill before doubling over, hands fisted in the grass as her body heaved through wave after wave of nausea.

She felt...barren. Used up and shattered.

Her fingers fumbled with her keys, silently pleading with her ignition before finally cranking the car. The street rushed by; the trees; the houses; the stop signs. She didn’t care, pressing the pedal to the floor as she urged the car faster.

The windows were dark by the time she pulled into the driveway, spotting an oil slick where her mother usually parked; despite the sudden surge of relief, helplessness quickly took its place.

 _The one time I need you here, Mom_ , she thought bitterly. Her throat felt raw. She needed a cigarette. No, that could wait.

She left a line of discarded clothing in her wake as she made her way up the stairs to the bathroom. She couldn’t bear to look at her reflection; rather, her hand squeezed through the curtain, turning the tap on as hot as it could go and standing under the stream.

It burned, scalding her skin pink. She didn’t care. This...this was a good kind of pain. Using a loofa lathered in scented soap, she scrubbed her skin raw and then again for good measure. As the suds sank into the drain at her feet, she lowered herself to the floor of the shower and let the water rush over her.

Her neck, where _he’d_ choked her; the junction of her thighs where she could still feel _him_ ; she only wished that she could wash her brain of the voice. _His_ voice. _Come back around if you want some more answers, kid_. She shuddered at the thought, tried to focus on the sounds of water hitting the tile around her.

She could feel pieces of herself escape down the drain; pieces she’d never get back.

Hugging her knees, she sat under the torrent until the water ran cold.

* * *

 

Insomnia tore at the seams of her fraying sanity. Gil’s voice echoed in her brain; she felt the ghost of his hand linger at her throat, asphyxiating her even within the safety of her sheets.

Half-past midnight, she turned to the bottle; gulps of Scotch whisky quelled her nerves but could not numb the ache that consumed her body.

Two o’clock found her curled up in the fetal position, clutching a pillow while she tried desperately to keep from crumbling under the weight of it all; disgusted with herself, humiliated, it took everything she had not to succumb to temptation and swallow the pills that beckoned her name.

By four, she was perched at the foot of her bed, staring down the barrel of a loaded revolver. Her father’s Smith & Wesson.

But no matter how long she sat with her finger around that trigger, she couldn’t do it; she couldn’t let that bastard win. He may have thought he had the last laugh, but Bradley Martin was not going down that easily.

And then it hit her; this was nothing a bullet in the chamber and four pounds of pressure couldn’t solve.

Vengeance lay in her trembling hands.

* * *

In the morning, she drove back to his house, parked far enough down the block to avoid detection. Concealing her weapon in her jacket, she measured her steps up the driveway, rang the doorbell, trained her sights on the door.

The second he opened it, she fired a bullet into his skull.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Femalevolent gets most of the credit for this one; I just did the editing and some small bits here and there, mostly dialogue. She's really good at stepping it up when I feel too sick and shitty to process thought. -Rooster

In any other parish, it might have been in poor taste to smoke weed outside of the sheriff's station. Dylan could have cared less; it had already shaped up to be a rough morning. He could spot Norma's Benz parked up the street. She and Norman had been in town since nine o'clock and it was just after eleven now.

He found their mother in the waiting area, clutching her purse and looking more than a little unraveled—her eyes kept flickering between the wall-mounted clock and Romero's closed door. It wasn't until he approached that her attention drifted to him, giving Dylan an appraising look.

"What took you so long?"

"You made me your errand boy, remember?" Dylan sank down, dropping a manila folder into the seat between them. "All they could give me was a week's worth. I got his locker combination from his homeroom teacher and pulled the books he'll need."

He followed Norma's gaze down the hallway. "Any news yet?"

"He's been in there an awfully long time…" A number of responses immediately came to Dylan's mind; but rather than instigate something between them, he kept quiet, clasped his hands together, and averted his gaze to the floor.

* * *

 

"So you never saw her after she offered you a ride?"

"I don't know how many other ways I can tell you no." Norman fidgeted in his seat, nervously preening the front of his sweater. "It was raining. She didn't think that I should be walking home with it being so cold, but I declined because I was already halfway there. The rain didn't bother me."

"Okay." Romero pursed his lips a moment, shuffling his papers before he decided to use a different strategy. "I spoke with a few students at the high school. Some of them noticed that you were spending a lot of time with her." A pause. "In what capacity have you seen Blair Watson outside of school before?"

"A few weeks before she—well…" He bit his lip. "I had written a paper for an assignment. She thought that it was good enough to publish, so she was helping me between classes and sometimes after school to clean it up. She was always doing things like that, you know? Seeing the potential in her students."

"And did you ever work on this…paper…at her residence?"

Norman fell silent, tearing his gaze away from the sheriff. The fact that they were in his office likely meant that Romero was trying to put him at ease. No harsh lighting, no two-way mirrors or cameras recording his every movement. Still, he felt the pressure with every question; he had a feeling that Romero knew quite a bit more than he let on. Better play it safe. "A few times. But she had students at her house often, especially for group projects."

"That's what I've heard," Romero confirmed with a nod of his head. He eyed Norman a moment, tilting his head a little when he noticed a faint scar on the bridge of his nose. "What about the day before she was murdered? One witness in particular saw the two of you in her classroom…looked pretty close from their point of view. Can you explain that?"

He breathed in sharply through his nose, holding it in as his attention shifted back to Romero. "I'd wanted to go over our latest draft. When I got there, she was on the phone with someone. Seemed…distressed. Whoever she was talking to, she didn't look happy about it. They were arguing. I didn't catch all of the conversation, but I got the gist of it. She told the person not to call her again and hung up."

"Did she say who she was talking to?"

"No, I—When she saw that I was standing at the door, she looked embarrassed. Asked what I had heard. I told her the same, that I'd just caught the end of it. Miss Watson asked that I keep it to myself, said that it could be our secret. She gave me a hug and that was that. I left shortly thereafter. I'd forgotten all about discussing my paper with her…and frankly, she wasn't in the right frame of mind to talk about it."

"The night of the winter formal, you got into an altercation with another student, a Richard Slymore. Care to tell me about that?"

"Not really. It doesn't have anything to do with this discussion."

"Let me be more specific, Norman. Mr. Slymore stated that you and his girlfriend had prior sexual relations…even went as far as to insinuate that you had taken advantage of her. Now, I'm not here to split hairs. But the night of the dance, he noticed that you kept staring at her. He followed you outside and confronted you. Would this be a fair statement?"

"I wasn't  _staring_  at her. Nor have I ever  _taken advantage_  of Bradley Martin. What happened between us was purely consensual. You can ask her, yourself. I do believe that Richard felt wronged, so he decided to act out his aggression on me. I can't say that I blame him. He struck me once in the face and that was the end of it. I left the dance shortly after that and returned home."

"And, according to you, Miss Watson was driving by and stopped to offer you a ride, to which you declined?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's a little interesting. You see…we found something peculiar at Blair Watson's house during our investigation. Cotton gauze in one of her trash cans, covered in blood. Upon closer inspection, we couldn't find a single scrape on her body…other than the fatal laceration to her throat. Now, it's possible that she could have been applying first aid to someone else…or the killer could have sustained injuries and decided to clean himself up at the crime scene. It would have been a stupid move…but it's possible."

"I don't see how that has anything to do with me, Sheriff. I already told you—"

"I know what you told me, Norman. And I believe you. But, as I'm sure that your mother has already explained to you, we'll need to take a blood sample and mouth swab from you. Fingerprints as well. We're only trying to cover our bases, here. This doesn't mean that you're in any trouble. We're just using them as a basis for comparison. Now, you can decline if you want to. But in so doing, you will be viewed as uncooperative. Should evidence come to light that incriminates you, Norman, there won't be anything I can do to help you."

"I understand." He paused, running his damp palms over the front of his slacks as he debated his options…though it wasn't as if many had been afforded to him. He could either comply or wait for a warrant—he had nothing to do with Miss Watson's death, of that he was certain. Still, the fact that he couldn't remember much about that night troubled him deeply. "I'll help in any way that I can, Sheriff."

* * *

 

Norma couldn't sit in silence any longer. The ticking of the clock behind them was nothing short of deafening, a metronome for her thoughts whose echo nearly drowned them out, and the anxious bobbing of Dylan's foot in her peripheral vision made her heart race.

"What do you think he's saying?"

Dylan's eyes met hers and the tension forced her to look away.

"The truth, I hope." She detected a note of contempt in his voice, a certain edge intended to cut deep.

"Do you think Romero will believe him?"

"I think Romero will do his job. He can't make any decisions until they have actual evidence."

"You don't think he's, you know, pressuring Norman to say anything, do you?"

"You wanna know what I think?" Dylan's voice rose in volume; all eyes were on him while the buzz of hushed conversation circled the room. "I think you're the one who's been pressuring him, and it's killing you not to know what he's saying because, for the first time, it isn't what you told him to say."

"Now that is not true!"

"Really? It's not true that you sat in on his therapy session and put words in his mouth for a goddamn hour?" His voice lowered to a feral hiss. "He believes that his father died in a freak accident, Norma. He's dangerous—and that's not even the worst part…the worst part is he gets away with it because all you do is protect him."

" _Protect him?"_ she repeated. "He doesn't need protecting, Dylan, because he hasn't done anything wr—"

The text tone and vibration of Dylan's phone cut her off.

_**New message from: Remo Wallace** _

**[1:58 PM] Get your ass down here. Warehouse. Now.**

_Thank God..._

"Who was that?"

"It's work – I gotta take this." In one fluid motion, Dylan grabbed his keys and stood, facing away from Norma and the look of disdain he knew he'd find written all over her face.

"You can't just walk away from me in the middle of a conversation!"

"Watch me."

Remo's rust-bucket was already parked in the gravel by the time Dylan pulled up. This time of day, the warehouse was usually in full-production mode but as he got out of his truck, the only sounds that reached his ears were the distant calls of magpies and crows. His hand went for the .45 tucked into his waistband as he crept toward the warehouse.

He found Remo inside pacing, a synchronized compulsion that promptly stopped the moment the door swung shut behind him.

"Gil didn't show up this mornin'."

"Okay, and…?" Dylan clicked his safety on, dropping the piece onto the table between them.

"The boss doesn't just forget to come into work, especially during a shipment. Tried calling him but it kept going to voicemail."

"Well…anyone think to stop by his house?" He watched as Remo's expression flickered from disproportionate worry to amusement at what  _he_ thought was a reasonable question.

" _Stop by his house?_ " He let out an incredulous snort. "Are you being serious? Ya don't just  _do_ that. Not without a damn good reason, at least." Dylan's brow furrowed in annoyance at his partner's tone.

"O _kay_ , then what  _do_ we do in this situation?" Remo shrugged, leaned back against the wall, and with a sardonic smirk, laughed:

"Sit around here and hope to God he's not dead or somethin'."

 


	6. Chapter 6

Pale irises stared up at her from the bottom of the stairs.

_...Why are they still open?_

Bradley weighed no more than a buck twenty-five soaking wet. How she’d managed to drag Gil, a man twice her size, across the living room was anyone’s guess--not even _she_ knew. Adrenaline? Desperation?

The point was, she'd done it.

Her hands shook as she slammed the basement door shut. Out of sight, out of mind.

Well, not _entirely_.

Her eyes followed the trail of brain matter and blood that spanned her path from the front door, and then shifted to her father's gun, still on the floor where she'd dropped it.  Stomach churning, she dared to looked down, realizing for the first time that she, too, was _covered_ in the stuff. The soles of her flats were saturated with deep red gore; her blouse, her jeans...the sight alone sent her running for the kitchen where she retched into a trash bin until the waves of nausea and panic finally subsided.

For the next hour, or maybe longer, she scrubbed and sanitized every square inch of Gil’s living room, from the door frame, to where they’d sat the night before, to the top of the stairs that led down to the cellar, all the while training her ears on the street outside. No sirens. Not yet, at least. But the house was still a disaster that needed to be taken care of, and fast.

 _More bleach?_ No, _light a fire_. No. The whole place could go up in flames.

Would it?

As her mind played back every detail of the last twenty-four hours -- vivid, loud, _harrowing_ \-- that familiar sense of panic started seeping in through the cracks in her psyche. A man was dead because of her. And if anyone found out--

 _No._ That simply wasn't an option.

_Fucked...I'm fucked..._

The words became a mantra as she worked. Noxious fumes burned her nostrils, a mix of bleach and whatever cleaning products she could find beneath the kitchen sink.

She needed fresh air.

Grabbing two bottles of bourbon from the liquor cabinet on her way out, Bradley stepped outside, sloshing alcohol the second she plopped down onto the front stoop. 

Maybe it wasn’t going to be that bad.

Maybe no one would come to check on him. And, even if they did, how would anyone know it was her? She had no real connection to Gil Turner. Seriously -- who would actually sit there and connect the dots to some high school girl? Gil probably made _tons_ of enemies over the years. He'd said it himself--in the drug business, it was easy to step on toes.

But what if...? Had anyone seen them together? She wracked her brain, trying to recall if she'd seen anyone the day before while she sat in her car. She couldn't be certain, and that singular thought scared her shitless.

He had neighbors.

What if someone heard the shot? Or worse, they'd seen her yesterday while she'd been staking out Gil's house?

_Oh god. What have I done?_

The urge to vomit returned but she hastily swallowed it down with another drink.

And another.

Soon, her head started to ache something fierce and after a while, her stomach started to protest against the alcohol she drowned it with. Dread burned hot in her gut; the longer she sat, the more her actions weighed on her conscience.

_I killed a man._

To be fair, some people in White Pine Bay would probably call that an average Tuesday, but, for Bradley, it was a nightmare -- and it was only going to get worse. _Of course_ they'd find out it was her. Her dad was Jerry-fucking-Martin. She'd be the _first_ person anyone would suspect of killing Gil...

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes but they didn't stem from sadness or nerves; rather, frustration. Anger. Maybe it was the bourbon commandeering her thoughts but she was mad at herself for having ever come here--what kind of idiot would honestly think he'd tell her anything in the first place? And in _that_ dress? She was practically _begging_ for him to take advantage of her.

"God _DAMMIT._ " She thrust the empty bottle down onto the step and watched a thousand shards of glass blossom out onto the paving stones.

_This is all my fault._

It was all her fault and she couldn't even ask anyone for help or talk to anyone about it for fear of what they might do with that information. Her mind went through a mental contact list. Her mother was out of the question, for obvious reasons. Her friends, too--they had big mouths. Not to mention, they would never in their wildest dreams involve themselves in any sort of criminal activity like this...and murder was about as criminal it got.

There was Norman...but--

 _No._ She refused. He already gave her the creeps with the way he looked at her -- and, besides, she'd already gone to him for help once. Not to mention that with _his_ weird hobbies and interests, he'd probably be _glad_ to hear what she did -- just the look of satisfaction she imagined on his face gave her chills.

Absolutely not.

And then...Dylan. She could think of a million reasons why he definitely _wasn't_ the person to go to with this kind of thing, but, a lot of those things made her think she should. He was probably closer to Gil than she thought he was, so maybe he'd want to know, rather than wonder.

Or, he could have a total conniption fit on her for fucking with his job.

Shit, she hadn't thought of that...

Taking out her phone, she swallowed hard, fingered a lock of hair away from her eyes, and tapped Contacts. After a minute or so of scrolling, she realized, reluctantly, that Dylan was her only real option. Her thumb hovered over his name for a moment, slightly shaking, before she pressed down.

  
**_New message to: Dylan Massett_ **

**[2:07 PM] inee d 2 tlk u**  
  


_Shit, shit, shit._

She wasn't even sure if she could trust Dylan. Well, no. That was a lie. The problem was, she trusted him more than she trusted half the people in town--people she'd grown up with and had known all her life--and she didn't know why.

Afew minutes passed with no response.

  
**_New message to: Dylan Massett_ **

**[2:13 PM] pls dyln ti imropant**

  
_Goddammit, Dylan. Where_ are _you?_

With a frustrated sigh, she twisted open the second bottle and knocked back two gulps of the stuff without a second thought, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before glancing to her phone again. Still nothing.

  
**_New message to: Dylan Massett_ **

**[2:22 PM] nvm**

  
_Whatever._ She didn't need him.

Maybe she couldn't fix this on her own, but by God, she sure as hell could end it.

With the bottle in hand, Bradley staggered to her car, stumbling more than once on the uneven pavement.  It took her a few solid minutes to locate her keys and another couple to finagle the door open with one hand while guzzling booze with the other.  She finally did manage to throw her door open, dropping into the driver's seat with a breathless, liquor-soaked laugh at the funny little dinging noise before realizing that the door was still ajar and slammed it shut.

Her depth perception was off, a fact only realized when she tried to start her car. Her eyes narrowed, focusing all of her energy on getting her key into the ignition; she missed a few times, metal scratching her otherwise pristine dashboard, before she got the key to turn.

She took one last sip of bourbon before tossing the bottle into her backseat; she could have cared less that booze was seeping out through the open neck all over her plush interior. Rather, she gunned the engine, soon nothing but a pair of red brake lights in the distance.


End file.
